


nothin' sweeter than my baby

by jesterwrites



Series: vignettes [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, a little spooky just in time for halloween season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-25 09:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesterwrites/pseuds/jesterwrites
Summary: “it was guilt,” oswald whispered. “there’s a fine line between fear and guilt, ed- and i was on the wrong side.”(takes place s2ep15. alternate ending where ed lets oswald stay.)





	nothin' sweeter than my baby

**Author's Note:**

> "i'd never want once from the cherry tree,  
> 'cause my baby's as sweet as can be."  
> -hozier, work song  
> hello, darlings. i don't know if this idea has been written about yet (probably) but it's an interesting concept and i like it.  
> i started work on this over the summer but it sat in my drafts for so long that i finally slapped an ending on it and called it a night. 
> 
> enjoy?

 

Edward Nygma had always known that Arkham Asylum changed people. It was no surprise, really, everyone knew that- but Ed had heard whispers of strange and unethical treatments and therapies done behind the filthy brick walls, things that would be kept forever from Gotham’s saner folk. Had anyone reminded him of that fact on any other night, the scientist in him would have ached anew to know the secrets hiding in wait for him there. But, as it was, tonight his mind was far from Arkham, despite knowing the Penguin was still trapped within. Or it would have been, anyway, had not the spoken-of devil arrived on his doorstep. The sky was dark with night and rain then, the patter of water windswept against the windows the only sound in Ed’s apartment, save the whistle of the kettle as the water heated. While his workspace was moderately neat, masses of clutter, papers, and dishes lay untouched on the counter, table, and nightstand. Had he known he’d be receiving company, perhaps he would have considered cleaning- but as meticulous as he was known to be, Ed couldn’t quite stand the thought of wiping the last traces of Oswald Cobblepot from his apartment. 

 

_ Not yet, anyway _ , he mused, glancing at the shelf where he’d once kept Kristen’s glasses.  _ Not yet _ . 

 

A quiet knock on the door jarred him, the sound eerily loud compared to the white noise of the rain outside. He glanced at the clock: it was far too late for a normal visitor, not that he tended to have those. It could have been a stranger, intoxicated and mistakenly knocking on a door believing it to be their own. Still, the part of his mind that constantly lay sick with paranoia insisted that he slip his pistol into his pocket as he stood to answer the door. He was expecting someone drunk, or high, or otherwise inebriated. He was expecting a mistake, or perhaps even the police, come to interrogate him about Kristen. Very well. He could handle that.

 

What he was not expecting to see when he opened the door was Oswald Cobblepot, wet hair flattened and shining like silk against his forehead and temples, cheeks and nose pink from the chill of the night, lips curved ever-so-slightly up into a shy smile. For a moment, Ed truly believed he was dreaming, that he’d fallen asleep while working and at any moment he’d return to reality, his glasses askew and his mind foggy. 

 

“Hello, Ed,” Oswald said tentatively, his voice wavering, and any thoughts of dreaming Ed had had were shattered, to his great relief, because Oswald was real and he was here, shivering on his doorstep. 

 

“Oswald? I’d heard rumors they might let you go- but I never- I didn’t- h-how long have you been out?” Ed stammered, his composure fractured as he eagerly examined his former companion’s expression.

 

“Only a few hours. I-I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t know where else to…” Oswald’s voice trailed off and Ed would have thought that for an instant he almost looked guilty, or otherwise abashed, except this was the Penguin, and such emotions were incredibly rare, even in Ed’s presence. 

 

“Mind? How could I? Come in, really, you’re soaked,” Ed insisted, placing one warm hand on Oswald’s shoulder and all but pulling him into the apartment. The touch alone felt novel for Ed, to be gentle in a way he hadn’t been for so long. He studied Oswald’s face- he was a little less gaunt now than he’d been before, the vengeful draw of his lips was now relaxed, and he was somehow impossibly paler, making the flush on his face left by the cold even more prominent. Yes, Arkham had left some kind of impression on him, physically at least, but Ed feared that mentally, the effects left on his partner were much deeper, and that Oswald was not quite the same Penguin he’d known before.

 

“Ed?” Oswald sounded almost timid. Ed realized that he’d been staring a little too long and shook his head to clear it. 

 

“It’s nothing. I just wasn’t expecting you to be back. I presume Arkham wasn’t the most hospitable of places.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Oswald replied, nervous smile still in place. He paused, unsure, then- 

 

“I’m- I’m sorry to ask so soon, but would it be okay if- if I stayed the night here? Or a few days? I haven’t really got anywhere else to go.”

 

The Penguin’s breathless, mortified confession- that he really didn’t have anyone but Ed now- reminded Ed of all the times he’d coaxed secrets and stories from him, harmless things that now seemed so distant and mundane they may as well have been photographs in an old box.

 

“Of course, of course,” Ed assured him, leading him to the kitchen table. “You don’t ever need to ask that. Go on, sit down. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.”

 

“A-and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, for always being so kind to me, even after-” Oswald cut himself off, shaking his head slightly. “After everything.”

 

Ed blinked. While Oswald, he’d learned, certainly had the capacity to be affectionate in every sense of the word, appreciation of any kind was laced with at least the tiniest bit of sarcasm- until this, which seemed oddly genuine. Now that Ed considered it, Oswald’s tone and behavior had had no edge to it at all thus far. Whatever they’d done to him at Arkham, it had made him less caustic in his mannerisms at least. 

 

“I was about to pour myself a cup of tea. I’ll get you one as well.” Ed crossed to the other side of the kitchen, where the kettle sat on the stove, the water still hot. 

 

“How have you been, Ed?” Oswald asked as Ed retrieved mugs and tea bags from a cabinet and set to work making tea. 

 

“I’ve been busy,” Ed hummed, pouring water into one mug and then the other, watching the humid tendrils of steam float lazily into the air, almost green in the harsh, near-neon light. “There’s been a lot to do.”

 

“I’d expect no less from you.” Oswald gave a breathy chuckle, the shaky laughter Ed remembered so fondly resonating in his throat. “What is it that you’re working on?”

 

Ed paused in his movements to absently tap a fingertip against his lips before responding. 

 

“I’m traded for regrets, both old and new. I’m sought by many but found by few. What am I?”

 

Oswald took a moment to consider the riddle. “I’m afraid I don’t know. What is it?”

 

Ed placed a tea bag in each filled mug and stirred two large teaspoons of sugar into Oswald’s, the way Ed knew he preferred it.

 

“Justice.”

 

Oswald brightened as Ed handed him his tea. “That’s a good one! Justice is- that’s a good thing, Ed. You must be doing the right thing, if that’s your goal.”

 

Ed cocked an eyebrow at him as he took a sip. “James Gordon is getting a little too close for comfort concerning Kristen and Officer Dougherty. I’m drawing his attention away from them, and, by extension, away from me.”

 

Oswald’s brow twitched, the dazed smile slipping from his lips as he cradled his mug in both hands. “How-how exactly is that justice?”

 

Ed placed his mug back down, staring at the Penguin in disbelief and slight annoyance. “It’ll keep me from getting caught? Oswald, I know they gave your brain a once-over in Arkham, but really…”

 

“They made me sane,” Oswald insisted. “I’m good now, I’m not hurting anyone now.”

 

“What? Oswald, you can’t mean…” Ed trailed off, unsure of what to say. “You weren’t crazy in the first place.”

 

“I was, though,” Oswald repeated. “But they made it so I don’t want to do anything bad anymore, and- and you can be good too, Ed, really, I can help you-”

 

He sounded so damn desperate. Ed’s heart lurched uncomfortably- this wasn’t  _ his _ Oswald. This wasn’t the caustic, power-hungry man he’d known before. This Oswald was- dare he say it- docile. Gentle.  _ Soft _ . He took a moment to step back and gaze at the Penguin, his ever-present scientific curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“Will you tell me about Arkham? What exactly did they do to you in there?”

 

Oswald didn’t respond at first and Ed thought perhaps he’d hit a nerve. Used to the Penguin’s oddities yet unsure of this new Oswald’s behavior, Ed patiently stepped behind him and picked up his partner’s coat from where he’d draped it over a chair. He turned to hang it on a hook by the door and, in doing so, nearly missed hearing Oswald’s whispered declaration.

 

“When I was young, I was always so scared of everyone. Other children, teachers. Sometimes even my mother, if she was displeased with me.”

 

Ed turned back to Oswald, confused but listening nonetheless. Oswald was still looking away from Ed, shoulders trembling near-imperceptibly. 

 

“When I started working for Fish Mooney, I thought that angering her was what frightened me most. Then I angered her, and I found that I was right. Later, I was afraid of Theo Galavan, because he threatened to kill my mother.”

 

Ed could hear Oswald’s breath getting shallow, his tone tightening. 

 

“Then-” Oswald’s voice nearly cracked and he took a deep breath. “Then he had her killed, and she died in my arms and then- and then I didn’t have her, and I was alone, and I was bleeding out and dying in the woods u-until you found me, and-” Oswald stopped mid-breathless ramble to steady himself, clearly trying to remain eloquent even as Ed listened to him fall to pieces.

 

“And I was sure, I was so sure. I thought that being alone in that trailer, watching my own blood pour out between my fingers, knowing that- that I was going to die, that was the most scared I had ever been and the most scared I would ever be.”

 

Slowly, deliberately, Ed reached out and slid his fingers over Oswald’s shoulders, trying to still the shake of his frame. At the touch, Oswald tilted his shoulders back and then forward again. For a moment, Ed nearly thought that Oswald was trying to push him away; hours spent in close proximity with the Penguin granted Ed the ability to read his unique body language, but this was new. Often, at a touch to his back or shoulders, Oswald would straighten proudly and the tilt of his head to the left or right would become more conscious and pronounced. But this? This movement was shuddery, unsure- as if Oswald didn’t know whether or not he was being touched at all. 

 

“I was wrong,” Oswald gasped, and Ed pressed the pads of his fingers into the satiny softness just above his collarbone at the outburst.

 

“I thought I couldn’t ever be more frightened. But Arkham-”

 

Oswald’s shoulders listed to one side and Ed’s hands were pushed away as Oswald took an unsteady, lopsided step, pulling himself to his feet to turn and face him. There were no tears in his pale eyes; Ed taught him when he was grieving his mother that to cry was to admit that love had begun the slow and fiery process of destroying him, but there was something else marring Oswald’s unfamiliar expression. Ed had seen the Penguin grieve, had seen him wracked with the harshest of sorrows and the coldest of angers. This, though, this was not grief. This was longing. Regret. Sentiment- but not love.  _ Not love _ , Ed’s mind said.  _ You know exactly what it looks like when he’s in love _ . 

 

Ed forced the voice into silence. This was the absence of emotion, there was no anger or sorrow at all. This was someone who had been broken and put back together in the wrong order, and Ed saw it in his eyes. 

 

 _Oh, Oswald,_ he thought. _What_ _are you mourning?_

 

“Arkham proved me wrong,” Oswald admitted, a weak smile gracing his empty face. “Every time I thought I was frightened before, that wasn’t fear. I learned that.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ed’s words came out quieter than he’d intended, his subconscious leveling itself to Oswald’s new vulnerability. 

 

“It was  _ guilt _ ,” Oswald whispered. “There’s a fine line between fear and guilt, Ed- and I was on the  _ wrong side _ .”

 

“What are you talking about?” Ed hissed through his teeth, taking a slow step in Oswald’s direction. “You were never on the wrong side, you had so much power, how could you  _ ever _ -”

 

“Ed, just listen to me!” Oswald pleaded, and Ed realized he’d moved closer than he’d intended- one more predatory step forward and he’d have Oswald backed up against the table.  _ Trapped _ , the voice in his head hummed.  _ Right where you want him _ .

 

“Shut up,” he snapped at it, taking a flinching step backward, holding his head in his hands. “Not you,” he clarified weakly to Oswald, who was blinking nervously at him when he straightened up again. “The voice. He’s- distracting me.” 

 

“Oh.” Oswald, to Ed’s surprise, actually stepped closer to him at that, lifting a tentative hand to rest comfortingly on Ed’s shoulder. “Please, don't worry about me. I’m not hurt or anything. I’m fine, Ed, really.”

 

“You aren’t,” Ed replied ruefully, feeling Oswald’s touch press just a little harder. His gaze fell to where the Penguin’s hand rested on the shoulder seam of his shirt, long fingers curled against the fabric, nails short but surprisingly clean. When Ed looked up again to find those luminous blue eyes staring pleadingly into his own, an old, not-unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest; almost unconsciously, and against his better judgement, he raised a hand to rest a light touch against the lower curve of Oswald’s cheek. His thumb rested only an inch or so from the corner of Oswald’s mouth, his index finger just beneath the ridge of his jaw, the rest of his fingertips dotting a line along his milk-white throat. If Ed moved his hand just a bit and applied more than a feather’s brush of pressure, he was sure he’d be able to feel Oswald’s pulse, each beat quick and hard as the fall of a hammer, steady but oh-so-rapid, like a jackrabbit’s: a heated, suspicious rhythm.

 

Oswald gave only the slightest of flinches at the touch, a tiny nudge of his head away from Ed’s hand, stiffening as if responding briefly to the brush of his fingers as his hold on Ed’s shoulder twitched tighter. Ed didn’t blame him: judging by Oswald’s current state, physical contact was likely something he’d been deprived of. Then again, given Ed’s own history with the throats of his lovers, even Oswald as he’d been before Arkham might have stared dubiously at him when touched like this. 

 

“You’re not alright, Os,” Ed whispered, watching with newfound delight as the tension in Oswald’s jaw dissipated at the use of the old, familiar name, yet the turmoil in his expression only intensified. Oswald’s lips parted slightly and Ed heard the intake of breath as he, inevitably, prepared to shakily protest that  _ no, he was alright, Ed was overreacting _ and for once, Ed was honest with himself: he didn’t want to hear it. Faced with few options and opting for the most pleasurable outcome, Ed leaned down and pressed his lips to Oswald’s, swallowing the Penguin’s words just as they surfaced from his throat and curved his tongue. 

 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget the startled, helpless noise Oswald made then, halfway between a moan and a cry, his hands grasping at Ed’s shirt, unable to push him away or pull him closer. 

 

“Shh, shh,” Ed heard himself say as he moved away from Oswald’s lips to kiss at his cheekbones and jaw, but he really didn’t want Oswald to hush at all, he wanted to hear more of him. As if he’d understood, Oswald obliged, releasing another melodic sound when Ed, with a sigh of something close to relief, trailed kisses down his neck. Ed knew that he should stop, that Oswald had only just been released from what must have seemed like an eternity of torture, and this was not at all appropriate-

 

But there was something so familiar and comforting about this, about the act of merely kissing Oswald, that Ed couldn’t bring himself to stop. At the same time, this Oswald was foreign to him, soft in all the ways the old Oswald wasn’t. The old Oswald would have flushed red with shame and anger at the mere thought of making any wanton sounds like the ones he was making now. The old Oswald would have simply endured kisses from Ed, merely tolerating them and nothing more.This Oswald, though, was  _ enjoying _ it. The way his cheeks and parted, panting lips were blushed sweet pink, the way he looked up at Ed through dark lashes- oh, he was beautiful. 

 

It was almost funny, Ed thought, absently tugging at the collar of Oswald’s sweater- how the old Oswald would have complained at the thought of a sweater instead of a suit!- to further the trail of kisses down across his collarbone. Oswald was just as much a work of art now as he’d been before. The only difference was that this new, helpless Oswald wanted to be worshipped just as much as Ed wanted to worship him. No, that wasn’t quite it either. Ed knew how much the Penguin loved praise: he practically swooned each time Ed told him how pretty he was, showering him with compliments was a surefire way to gain his favor. 

 

What was it, then? What made this new Oswald so different? Pulling away to study Oswald’s face, Ed decided it warranted further research. 

 

Slowly, so as not to startle him, Ed slid his palms up under the bottom hem of Oswald’s sweater and brushed gentle fingertips along his sides. Oswald made a soft, strangled sound and immediately Ed glanced upward in concern. Instead of distress, as he’d expected to see, Oswald’s expression was still one of contented pleasure. It made sense, of course- Oswald had spent so long isolated and in pain that any kind of gentle touching would feel pleasurable. Ed felt an unexpected surge of pity and tenderness for his partner.

 

“I’m going to fix you,” he murmured, almost unconsciously, as he moved his hands out from under Oswald’s sweater and up around his back to pull him close for another gentle kiss. “I’m going to make things right again.”

 

Ed would later realize, with a sinking feeling that bordered both regret and relief, that the delicate sigh Oswald gave when he kissed him again hadn’t sounded grateful, as he’d thought, but instead dreamlike, dazed, enamored. Then again- perhaps being in love was as close to gratitude as Oswald Cobblepot could ever be.

 

Almost before he realized what was happening, Ed was kissing him once more, and letting his hands roam in places that Oswald wouldn’t have ever tolerated before Arkham, and 

  
  
  
  


Edward Nygma awoke with a jolt at his desk, his glasses askew and his head foggy. Discontent rose in him like bile as he recalled the fantasy he’d come so close to enacting in his own head. He reached for the teacup resting among the papers scattered across his workspace; it had long since gone cold. Ed rubbed his hand over his eyes, pushing up his glasses, and tried not to think too hard about what had just happened. He was tired, that was all, and his mind was only playing tricks on him. Oswald was locked up safe in Arkham, he was not coming back to haunt Ed like the prodigal son of the Bible or a vengeful ghost or a creature that was softened and pitiful, yet at the same time irresistibly seductive like the one in his dream. No, Oswald Cobblepot was far away from him and would stay far away from him, and as he stood to clear the table of his schemes and plans, Edward decided he liked it that way.

  
  
  
  


...There was a knock at the door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> on tumblr @jesterquill


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